


all the colorful noise

by BeggarWhoRides



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Delphine-centric, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Major Illness, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Morally Ambiguous Science, Synesthesia, Unhealthy Handling of Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeggarWhoRides/pseuds/BeggarWhoRides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she was three, she'd tried to explain to Maman the colors of voices and begun to fear that she was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Unhealthy handling of mental illness, family death, non-graphic sex of dubious consent, manipulation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Not an update, just fixing a typo. Chapter 3 should be up next week!

When she was three, she’d pointed at the bright sky in June, and tried to explain to Maman that it was the color of her voice. 

Maman had laughed, the bright cerulean sparkling around Delphine, and laughed, scooping her up and pressing a kiss to her curls. _Mon petit coeur,_ she’d laughed, _silly thing, you say such pretty nonsense._ She had objected, squirming in Maman’s arms, because her voice was that pretty sky-blue, it mixed so nicely with Papa’s starless-night-sky voice, contrasted sharply with baby Henri’s bright-green cries. Maman had frowned, _Delphine that’s enough, you’re being silly, go inside and wash up and I don’t want to hear anymore._

When she was three, she’d tried to explain to Maman the colors of voices and she’d begun to fear that she was wrong. 

\---------------

She started school that year, just another child in a sea of children, and she tried to keep it that way, seated in the back of the room and tugging on a blonde curl among the sea of colors that came with all the high-pitched voices. Reds, purples, pinks and greens and colors in between, swirling and pressing in on her. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew her knees up to her chest, the colors changing from one to another and all filling her head. 

The teacher’s voice was muddy brown. Her stomach rolled. 

She tugged on her curl and bit her fingernails and wished it was silent so the colors would stop. 

“Delphine.” The muddy-brown teacher was closer, louder, and she shut her eyes tighter, because she _really_ did not like that color, especially surrounded by all the other colors in the room. “Del--”

She threw up on the teacher’s shoes. 

\---------------

“First day nerves,” Papa reassured her at home, stroking her hair as she lay in his lap. She shut her eyes and breathed in his warm smell of home and cigars, wreathed in the sound of royal blue. “You’re all young, they will forget and school will get easier. Were you feeling ill this morning, _coeur?_ Why didn’t you tell Maman?” 

“Can no one else see the colors?” she begged, opening her eyes and tugging on his suit jacket. 

“Colors?” 

“The colors of the sounds, Papa.” When he looked confused, she tried to explain--he was dark blue, Maman was lighter, baby Henri was mint green, and all the children at the school, they were so loud and so colorful--

“Delphine.” Papa cut her off, sitting her up so she was looking in his eyes. “How long have you been seeing the colors?”

“For forever. I tried to tell Maman, but--”

“No, Delphine.” He was holding onto her shoulders now, and she was getting scared. “You now how Maman has her turns? Sometimes she goes quiet, or gets ill and stays in her room for a few days?” 

She nodded; after Henri was born, Maman hadn’t left her room for days, but she had heard her yelling and crying. Maman hadn’t wanted to see her or Henri and Papa had looked more scared than she’d ever seen him. 

“This would give Maman a turn?”

“Yes, _coeur,_ we don’t want her to worry.” He rubbed her shoulders comfortingly, but he still looked serious. “I have a job for you. I’ll hire a home tutor for you, you won’t have to go to school, but you mustn’t tell Maman about the colors.We’ll pretend like they don’t exist.” 

“But Papa,” she asked, tugging on her sweater sleeves, “isn’t that like lying? Lying is _bad,_ Maman says.” 

“Delphine, you have to listen very closely now, this is important.” Papa took a deep breath, looking away for a moment before looking back into her eyes. “Lying is bad--very bad. But what’s worse is letting your loved ones get hurt. Even if it means lying, _coeur,_ even if it means doing bad things, you keep them safe. You do what you must to keep them safe. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” she promised, feeling very small. “I understand, Papa. I’ll protect her.” 

“Good girl, _mon coeur.”_ He kissed her forehead and held her close. “You don’t forget that.”

\---------------

Mademoiselle Beraud was a patient and pretty woman who liked Delphine, it was obvious, but was also fairly curious about why Delphine needed a tutor rather than going to school. Delphine just smiled and did as she was told--she didn’t mind, Mademoiselle Beraud had a clear voice like bright lavender. 

It was dull work at first--she would have preferred games to exercises, but they were sort of fun and Mademoiselle’s voice was pretty to see. 

She learned to read fairly quickly, though reading aloud was harder--she was better at connecting symbols to meaning than symbols to sound. Handwriting was dull and she did as much as she could to get out of physical exercise, but overall she had fun, and loved the looks of pride her parents gave her, their voices singing praise in happy blues. 

And then she got her first set of math problems--equations instead of just counting blocks and patterns--and she fell absolutely in love. 

The numbers _fit,_ they fell into place before her in a way that was absolutely right. There was a map in front of her whenever she saw numbers, maps that showed her where the numbers sat in relation to others, and even at age five and one quarter she knew it was the most beautiful thing she would ever see. 

She also knew, without asking, that it was something she had to hide, the same as the colors, and so she let kind Mademoiselle Beraud call her gifted and magnifique instead of broken and wrong. But it did make Maman smile, and then Maman would get Henri to clap bright blue-green claps and laugh his mint-green laugh, Papa would look proud, and that meant that everything was okay. 

She pretended the colors weren’t there and everything was okay.

\---------------

When Delphine was five and three-quarters, she was reading _Le Voyage de Babar_ when Mademoiselle Beraud stepped out of the room to answer the sharp maroon of the ringing phone. 

She liked Babar because it was silly--she watched the documentaries, she knew elephants never wore clothes or walked on two feet. She liked the documentaries too, the narrator had a pretty orange sound. 

Mademoiselle came back into the room just as Babar and Celeste got onto a whale. 

“Delphine,” she’d said, kneeling down in front of her. She hadn’t wanted to stop; it looked like Celeste and Babar were in trouble again. “Delphine, _cherie,_ reading is over now. We have to go on a special trip.” 

The lavender of her voice didn’t cover the tears on her cheeks. She sat up, scared, as Mademoiselle dabbed at her eyes. 

“Where are we going? Mademoiselle, what’s wrong?” 

“We’re going to to the hospital, _cherie._ Your Maman and Henri were coming home from the store and...and were in an accident.”

\---------------

The hospital was full of colors, all beeping and shouting and other horrible noises that Delphine had never heard before and never wanted to hear again. She felt like all the colors were going to mash her up and swallow her whole. 

“Delphine, you can’t cry now _cherie,_ we have to go inside.” Mademoiselle frowned, bending to scoop her up. Delphine half-screamed, pressing her hands to her ears and eyes shut as tight as they would go. “Come on, Delphine, the doctors...the doctors said we must hurry.”

Mademoiselle held her tight to her chest, her shoes tapping a fire-yellow click-clack that pierced through all the other colors in her brain, giving her just a bit of stability to cling to in the desperate mess. 

“She’s family of Lara and Henri Cormier.” Mademoiselle’s voice was quavering, but her voice was a strong, comforting lavender hue. “Martin, the father, he called ahead, do you have any information for us? Please, I have worked with this family for years now, I know them.” 

The doctor’s voice was a color between pink and green, slow and gentle as he ushered Mademoiselle to a chair. It was quieter here and slowly Delphine lowered her hands from her ears enough to hear words. 

Enough to hear him say “--Henri has died, I’m sorry,” and deep lavender sobs. 

“Delphine,” she heard, and there was the deep blue of a night without lights as strong arms pulled her away from Mademoiselle and against his chest. “Delphine, _mon coeur,_ thank god, thank god.” 

“Papa,” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck as he murmured blue into her hair. “Papa, what’s happening, it’s so loud and my head hurts, Papa please, they said Henri was dead and I don’t understand, _please_ Papa.” 

“Oh _mon coeur, mon coeur,”_ he pressed a kiss to her forehead, stroking her hair and rocking her back and forth, just a bit. “Delphine, I’m sorry, but you have to be brave now. You’ve got to be brave now.” 

“I don’t want to be brave, I want to go home, _please.”_

“I know, _mon coeur,_ I know.” Papa set her down gently, kneeling in front of her to dry her eyes. “But there’s not a choice now. Maman is ill, Delphine.” 

“Like with one of her turns?” 

“Her body’s ill too, this time.” His voice was the darkest blue she’d ever seen, and it almost scared her more than the water in his eyes. “She’s very ill but she wants to see you. You need to talk to her _coeur,_ and tell her than Henri is okay.” 

“Papa, they said…” She started to sob, balling her hands into fists and pressing them to her eyes. “Papa, they said Henri was _dead._ Dead isn’t okay, Papa, and they said he was dead.”

“I know, Delphine, but Maman doesn’t know that. She’s ill and a turn will only make her worse. We want her to be happy.”

“Lying?” 

“Protecting. You remember what I said to you, about the most important thing?”

“You do what you must,” she hiccuped, and he patted her on the head. 

“Good girl. You love Maman?” 

She nodded. “But she won’t be cross with me when she gets better?”

“No, Delphine,” he promised, voice almost black. “She won’t.”

\---------------

Lara Cormier, née Lachance died at 6:08 PM, according to the doctor with a voice like cream, about three hours after her son, Henri Cormier, died at the scene of the accident. 

The important thing, Papa said, was that Henri had had Maman with him, and he hadn’t suffered, and Maman had had both of them with her and she hadn’t suffered either. She had just been sleeping at the end, he promised her, surrounded by tubes and wires, that one machine making black-orange beeps for a long time before it turned to one long tone, Papa in a voice so dark blue and so different than Maman’s blue telling the doctors to _step back, stop trying._ A pretty nurse had offered to get her some cocoa, to sit with her for a bit, but the nurse’s voice had been like Henri’s spit up and so she’d refused, sat alone on a bench in the quiet part of the hospital while Papa did “offical things.” 

One week later, Papa helped her put on a new black dress and they went to a funeral parlor, where they would put Maman and Henri in boxes and then put them in the dirt. 

“Don’t talk like that, Delphine,” Papa had scolded. His voice was a darker blue now--ever since Maman and Henri had gone away, Delphine had felt like there was a big hole in her belly and Papa’s voice had been close to black. “We’re going to say goodbye to them.” 

“Will there be other people, Papa?” 

“Yes, most of the family will be there. I know you haven’t met them, but they’re all very nice.” He didn’t look up while he was talking; instead he knelt and fastened the buckles on her shiny black shoes.

“But Papa, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to say goodbye to Henri and Maman--” 

“I know, _mon coeur,_ but they’re gone, we have to.” 

“I don’t want to, Papa, I don’t _understand!”_ She pulled her foot away, her voice raising into a wail. “Where did Maman go, where did Henri go, why aren’t they coming home?” 

“Delphine--”

 _“They were coming home!_ They were coming home and now they’re never coming home and everything is different and bad and I hurt inside all the time and your voice is almost black all the time--”

 _“Delphine, how many times, no talking about the colors!”_ She flinched away, sobs stuttering in shock. Papa took a deep breath, then picked up her other shoe and began to put it on. “Sounds do not have colors.” 

“But--” 

“Delphine. I’m sorry, _mon coeur,_ but you have to grow up now.” His voice was so close to black. “You’re nearly six years old, you cannot stay at home with Mademoiselle Beraud anymore. In a few months you’re going to go back to school. I have a new job, so I’m going to be at work more--you’re going to be walking yourself to and from school.”

“Papa, I don’t want to--”

“I know.” He sat up and pulled her into a hug, gently wiping away her tears as he did so. “But it’s only us now. This is best, Delphine, I promise, even if it hurts now. Be a brave big girl for me now, _mon coeur,_ you must.” 

“Yes, Papa,” she whimpered, scared of throwing herself back into all the colors outside the safety of home, but more scared of failing Papa. “I can be a brave big girl.” 

“Good girl.” He kissed her forehead gently, smoothing out her hair. “Good girl, Delphine. I love you.” 

“I love you, Papa.” 

The funeral was outside on a warm day, the sky almost the color of Maman’s voice. Instead of the coffins, Delphine stared at the sky, watching the red-purple birdsong and the rainbow of condolences and sobs.

\---------------

When she was in her freshman year of college, already taking junior year math and already called an “extraordinarily promising mathematician” by her professors (the number maps that she was now certain no one else saw were invaluable), Delphine’s coffee date with a boy who sounded raspberry-red was interrupted by the sharp yellow-green of her cell phone. 

_“Excusez-moi,”_ she said politely, interrupting what seemed to be an endless rant about Madame Coupe’s grading system (she agreed with his points, but after around ten minutes he’d repeated himself five or more times) and answered the unknown number. 

“Mademoiselle Delphine Cormier?” 

“Yes?” The woman on the other end had a melodic enough voice, but managed to be a pale brownish-green; well versed in practice at this point, Delphine kept a polite smile on her face and a civil tone. 

“You’re Doctor Martin Cormier’s daughter and next of kin?” 

“Yes that’s me. Can I ask who’s speaking?” 

“I’m a nurse from the Lou Bellerose Hospital. I’m sorry to have to inform you that your father has passed away.” 

“Oh.” The breath left her in a sudden rush and she stumbled, reaching out for something to grab onto. When she didn’t find anything, she slumped down against the wall instead.

“Mademoiselle Cormier? Are you still there?” 

“Y-yes, I’m sorry.” She ran her hand through her hair, taking a few shaky breaths. “It...it was an accident?” 

“No, Mademoiselle I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Your father has been coming here for months, ever since his lymphoma was classified as stage IV. He developed a parasitic infection a few weeks ago, it was thought he would recover but his condition worsened unexpectedly--I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, he told you none of this?” 

“No, he didn’t, he…” She stopped, swallowing down a sob. “In our family, we protect each other. We don’t let anyone get hurt.” _Even if that’s lying, even if that’s hiding._ “It is the most important thing.” 

“Mademoiselle, forgive me, I didn’t mean to imply--”

“No, no, it’s me who should be sorry.” She pushed herself off the wall, stumbling toward the nearest door. “Thank you for calling. I’ll be there in an hour or so.” 

The sky was clouded over, various greys going out to the horizon. None of the passerby’s chatter was blue, and she wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse. 

\---------------

Delphine Cormier was alone. 

She realized it after Papa’s funeral, surrounded by relatives with sickly sweet condolences and voices whose colors all blurred together before long. She smiled, thanked them, shook their hands and turned down their offers of money, food, support. These were people she hadn’t seen since Maman and Henri’s funeral and she didn’t want to see again. They were strangers pretending to love her because of a simple thing like blood--a meaningless thing like blood. She and Papa had survived as the two of them for years, and she didn’t appreciate them intruding just because Papa was gone now. 

So she returned to college alone, and never called that raspberry-red voiced boy back. Instead she called her advisor, a Monsieur Tobias, who was a sweet older man with a dark orange voice. 

“Hello?”

 _“Bonsoir, Monsieur._ This is Delphine Cormier--I’m sorry to bother you so late.” 

“Mademoiselle Cormier, no, not at all! I’ve heard about your father and I’m so sorry--he was a great doctor, from what I hear, and very missed.” 

“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind.” 

“Did you need someone to talk to? Is that--” 

“No sir, it’s actually about my major. I’d like to switch from mathematics to biology, with a focus on immunology.” 

“Changing your major? Forgive me, but are you sure you’re thinking this through? You’re already slated for a wonderful career as a mathematician, already getting attention--” 

“Yes, sir, but I don’t feel that it’s something right for me.” _I’m wrong, something Papa taught me for years to hide, and I’m using it to achieve success._ The numbers were still so beautiful to her, fitting into the most wonderful, wonderful pattern before her, but Papa had worked so hard to help her be normal--a successful, normal child--and she was going to be, for him. 

And she wanted to know more about what had taken Papa from her. 

“Well, Mademoiselle Cormier, if you’re sure…” 

“Yes sir. Thank you.”

She glanced out the window; all the familiar French streets, the brown and white and ruby-colored chatter and bustle, all the places that Papa once wandered, planned to wander, all the places Maman and Henri could have should have been. 

“I’m sorry sir, one last thing--I’d also like to study English. I want to go abroad.” 

\---------------

She learned to love the lab--the robin’s egg blue color of clicking pipettes, the copper whirr of the centrifuge, the wonderful silence on the weekends or after-hours when she was the only one there. 

She adored the complexities of science; after years of wrapping herself in theoretical mathematics, applicable studies were something new and wonderful. There were always new questions, further complexities, deeper mysteries within something so outwardly simple as a cell, an organ, a human. 

She loved it. She loved it so much that sometimes, she forgot about the horrible wrongness of the colors. 

And she was good; maybe not as good as she was in math, but she was a Cormier and that meant she was _damn_ good when she wanted to be, and as her fascination with science grew, as she rose through her classes, she got noticed. 

Noticed enough that one morning, as she slipped into the lab to check on a few cultures before classes and before the lab would be filled with other students and all their colorful chatter, she was interrupted. 

“Mademoiselle Cormier,” a smooth voice--grey and red, mixed together, like gunmetal and blood melded into one--came from a figure settled at her usual lab station. “Or Doctor Cormier, I should say--you’ll be one in what, a few weeks?” 

“Who are you?” she asked, taking a few cautious steps forward. The speaker was a man, tall and thin and bald, and his eyes raked over her body in a way she was sickeningly used to. 

“Oh, forgive me, where are my manners?” He crossed a few steps closer, grinning charmingly and extending a hand. “My name is Doctor Aldous Leekie, and I work at the Dyad Institute. I assume you’ve heard of us?”

“Y-yes,” she stuttered, taking his hand automatically. Dyad was spoken of by the professors here with a little of something like awe and a lot of something like fear. “I have read several of the papers published by your institute, I was very impressed--” 

“Well thank you, thank you, but flattery isn’t something you need to do with me. You’ve developed quite a reputation, you know; science is such a close-knit field, when one person stands out, word gets around. One of the youngest PhD students this school has ever had, that’s very impressive.” 

“Thank you, sir, I--” 

“Delphine--may I call you Delphine? I’m here to offer you a job.” 

“A-a job?” 

“Well, a research fellowship really, but we’ll cover all your expenses. In fact, we can guarantee you work once your fellowship is done. Well-paying, even--Dyad knows when they’ve caught a good one, and we’d hate to let someone like you go.” He grinned again, wider this time, and didn’t bother hiding his leer. “In fact, you and I, we could work out a special arrangement. Just a few favors in exchange for a few favors from me.” 

She bristled instinctively, halfway to pulling away when she realized what he was offering her. A fully paid fellowship, a job afterward, and with one of the greatest institutes in the world, an institute who’d sent someone across an ocean to meet with her. 

And in exchange…

 _You do what you must for the ones you love._ For Papa, who’d wanted her to be successful. For Maman, who’d looked so proud whenever she’d done well. 

For herself, because she was all she had left. 

“Doctor Leekie, it would be an honor.” 

\---------------

So she immersed herself in the work, and the work was _good._ It was fascinating research, and brand new, and nothing like anything she would have dreamed of being able to do had she stayed behind in France. 

(That may be because it would’ve been illegal there; she did her best not to think about that)

The one downside to the work was Dr Joey Paquet. He was absolutely fantastic at what he did (as everyone of the researchers associated with Dyad were, they were all assured), but he had a voice that was an orange-yellow-brown, like smeared dog dung, that even she, with all her years of practice in dealing with unpleasant voice colors, had trouble stomaching. Worse still, he considered the fact that they were both French (he was of Asian heritage but raised by French parents, he was always quick to point out) to be an invitation for him to flirt with her whenever possible, which always ended with her rejecting him as quickly and politely as possible before fleeing the room. 

He never seemed discouraged. She started carrying peppermints to settle her stomach.

“You know this isn’t an exclusive relationship,” Aldous said to her one night as she dressed, and she frowned for a moment, unsure of what he was getting at. “That Dr. Paquet seems quite keen on you,” he clarified, his red-grey voice feeling like it was settling on her skin like thick oils, like it always did. “I wouldn’t want this arrangement to be the cause of his broken heart.” 

“Ah, no, no, I do not reject him because of this,” she clarified quickly. “He is kind, yes, but it is his voice, the color is so…” She trailed off, terror sitting heavily in her stomach. “I-I mean, the sound, his voice, it can just be so irritating, I could not stand listening to it--when I am tired, my English seems to leave,” she finished, carefully schooling her features into a self-deprecating expression, even as she felt her fingertips tremble ever so slightly as she bent to adjust the foot of her pantyhose. He had not moved when she straightened back up, simply staring at her like a child that had just amused him. After several moments she slipped her top on and asked him to help with the zipper. 

“You have a unique perspective on the world, don’t you Delphine?” he murmured into her ear as he did up her zipper, slipping back into flawless French. She felt herself go absolutely still, her heart beating loudly in electric pink double-time. 

“It is necessary to succeed in a scientific field,” she managed to force out, automatically responding in French as she pulled away and slipped her feet into her heels. 

“That’s very true.” Aldous held out her purse and she took it, still unable to look him in the eye. “Until next time, Doctor Cormier.” 

“I’m sorry?” She did pause at that, turning back from the door she’d been about to leave through. “I thought the fellowship ended next week.” 

“Oh, I think we’ll be seeing each other for quite some time,” Aldous replied with a grin. It sounded more like a promise than a simple statement. 

The next day, Delphine received a letter notifying her that she’d been selected to work on Project Leda. 

\---------------

Project Leda was groundbreaking, and stunning, and wonderful, and _so_ illegal. 

_Human cloning._

She had perhaps the lowest clearance level possible on this project--she’d never even seen photos of the clones, knew nothing about their names, where they lived, their lives--she only knew biological sex because of some of her genome work, and the various tag numbers. 781b68, 324b21, 572b36 and several others passed through her lab daily in the form of blood samples, tissue samples, even hair samples on occasion (and that was the closest thing she had to a glimpse into these lives--because really? Bright red hair, 665b41?) as she studied immune responses, hypersensitivities, and any signs of immunodeficiency or autoimmune disorders. 

It was all so fascinating, the idea of human clones, out there in the world, unaware of the amount of work that had gone into them, unaware of the scientific miracles that they were, of how they would change so many different fields. 

She loved her work, loved being a part of this history, but she knew--she knew so well--that she could be more. Aldous knew that too--he had a knack for reading people, she knew, and she knew that she didn’t exactly hide the ambitious gleam in her eye. 

So it wasn’t really a surprise when she entered her lab one morning and found him there, alone, and waiting. 

“A position’s just opened up in Minnesota,” he said without preamble. “A monitoring position for one of the clones.” 

She sucked in a breath, eyes widening slightly. _Monitoring._ Instead of samples and tag numbers, the chance to see a clone, to _interact,_ to gather data first-hand. A thrill of excitement filled her, only dampened slightly by Aldous’s steel and blood colored chuckle that filled the air when her face betrayed her. 

“Of course, normally this is a double-blind situation, but this subject has always given us a bit of trouble, and we need someone able to infiltrate the University of Minnesota as a student. Naturally, I suggested you--after all, we can trust you, hm?” He moved forward as he spoke, gently arranging one of her curls so it sat behind her ear as he finished. 

“Aldous, I would be honored,” she told him, making herself look into his eyes and smile. He chuckled again, dropping his hand to give her shoulder a squeeze. 

“I knew we could count on you, Delphine. I just hope 324b21 likes you as much as I do. Speaking of…” He leaned in, the red-grey glisten of his voice almost filling her vision as he whispered, “I’ve reserved the usual hotel room for tonight. A bit of celebration, hm?” 

“Of course,” she whispered back, forcing her face to remain bright and smiling once he stepped back. _Do what you must,_ she reminded herself, _and it’s paying off._

“Excellent.” He squeezed her shoulder once more, briefly, before seeing himself out of the lab with a promise to send an intern in with subject 324b21’s files within the hour. Once the door had shut with a greenish-blue click, she fell into her favorite chair (it squeaked with a lovely mango-pink color) and allowed herself a few moments to grin. 

It was worth it. 

It was going to be worth it.


	2. Chapter One

The first day at the University of Minnesota is filled with buzzing voices of different hues, rushing from class to class to hear lectures on subjects she’d memorized years ago, and discovering that while she could talk about histamine responses, immunoassays and chronic granulomatous disease for hours, her conversational English was...lacking. Which made it inconvenient at best, and difficult at worst, to talk classmates or professors about anything outside of class.

She tells herself she doesn’t mind, though--she is working, not learning, and she loves her job. She is part of some of the most groundbreaking, important research to ever be undertaken, and there is no point in being distracted from that. 

It doesn’t matter that the only person she has now is Aldous, she tells herself, and what the two of them have isn’t anything close to love. 

There isn’t time for worries like that anyway--there is barely time for reporting in to Aldous, for finding and confirming 324b21’s lab schedule (and there is a name now, Cosima Niehaus, and it’s somehow strange to see that it exists outside of Dyad’s white walls, that 324b21 is _Cosima_ and has habits like reserving lab station 3 during the busiest class hours, seems to delegate a lot to an undergrad called Scott Smith), to pack her bag with a fake transcript on top, to settle herself in the station across from number 3 and wait, her Dyad phone in hand, for 324b21 to walk in, for her “boyfriend” to call, for the play to start. 

Her phone buzzes a warm red-violet as the woman who matches the photo in 324b21’s file walks into the lab and sits down in lab station 3, popping open a briefcase and settling down to work. She turns slightly away, her stomach flipping in something like excitement, pressing the answer button on the phone. 

_“Allô?”_

\---------------

She made it through the call, the exit, had gotten the tears to fall, and that was the hardest part, so she isn’t sure why she feels so off-balance during her conversation. 

The clone--Cosima--is fascinating, of course. Her voice is a light yellow-gold, and it almost seems to weave through the air along with her hands as she spoke, her entire body shifting with her words. Cosima has a snaggle-toothed grin, so much excitement in her eyes, and so much earnestness when she speaks--like a child, almost, but Delphine has seen her bloodwork, her grades, the courses she’s taking, and the woman is _smart,_ a puzzle Delphine can't understand.

The next thing she knows, Cosima is saying “Enchantée” with a smile and a horrendous American accent with a voice sparkling like champagne, and Delphine is _lost._

\---------------

Of course, it takes her a while to admit that--even to herself. Instead she spends days breezing through classes, seeking out Cosima (and if it looks less like friendship and more like flirting, that’s a problem for another day) and nights either alone or with Aldous, whose red-grey voice seems harder and harder to wash out of her skin with each passing night.

She doesn’t let herself even think of that until after their dinner with Cosima and Aldous, until Cosima’s lips press against hers, and even then it isn’t really thinking--it’s running, awkwardly bolting from the room, trying desperately to shut the door on thoughts that look like something out of fairy tales rather than scientific research, thoughts that center around Cosima’s voice, bubbling golden cream and saying _Delphine._

Aldous finds her, the way he found her in France, the way he always finds her, and he holds her in the back of his car and talks gently to her, the way he always does.

“Where are you with Cosima?” 

“She...she made a pass at me, Aldous,” she admits and she isn’t sure why--because he is all that she has, the only person she can talk to, because it’s information he should know about sexuality for the trial, because she wants to see if he reacts, if maybe she means something to him after all. 

“Really?” 

“Yes,” she half-insists, and he pulled her closer, stroking her face and pressing his forehead to hers. 

“Delphine, Cosima’s safety is at stake,” he tells her, and the rest of his words seem like a red-grey haze in the corner of her eye, because _Cosima is in danger_ and it feels as though the ground is gone and the fact that she cares so much scares her almost as much as the fact that _Cosima is in danger, in danger in danger._

“But she has to initiate disclosure,” she manages, not-begging in a way she’s perfected when all she wants to say is _my hands are tied, please say you can help her, Aldous please._

“I’m not saying disclose. This is a direct threat, so I need you to dig deeper and faster.” 

He leaves her on the curb alone, like he always does. She knows what he wants her to do, but _mon Dieu,_ she doesn’t know if she can do it. 

_You do what you must for the ones you love._

I love her. 

The thought feels like leaping off a cliff--a horrible thing to do, with a terrible end coming, but for the moment, it feels like flying. 

She barely knows Cosima, it has only been a few days, and maybe Delphine is simply too desperate or too lonely, but there is something she feels there. A pull like gravity, a pull like what poets would call fate, and she doesn’t know what this is--philia, agape, perhaps even eros--but it is _something,_ small but there, and it is love.

_I love her and that makes this easy._

She turns and retreats into one of the university buildings, feeling heavier than she had before. 

_I love her and this should make this easy._

\----------------

There was a plan. 

There was a plan, and it was a good one--return to Cosima’s, rekindle the friendship, bring Dyad research and all those things Cosima loved to talk about (and Delphine loved it too), then pocket a spare key, or get one from Cosima herself, or better yet convince Cosima to give her a few minutes alone in the apartment so she could seek out information, anything Cosima knew, anything that could save Cosima. 

There was a plan, and she was sticking to it. 

Until she wasn’t. 

“I can’t stop thinking about that kiss,” comes stumbling out of her mouth and a part of her wants to snatch it back and a part of her wants Cosima to look at her that way--with that beautiful hopeful light in her eyes and that little lovely smile--forever. 

“Like in a not-bad way?” Her voice is so American, with her little expressions that are so hard to understand and total lack of formality, and so lightly golden, and Delphine can tell she was lost so very long ago. 

The truth isn’t meant to be coming out but it is and so is she, with phrases like _I’ve never thought about bisexuality,_ and _sexuality is a spectrum,_ and _it’s contrary to the biological facts,_ and Cosima is grinning, and laughing, and her voice is turning the world a beautiful color. 

“That’s oddly romantic.” There’s a pause, enough time for Delphine to say _no, stop,_ to step back into her plan. “Totally encouraging.” 

There’s still a chance, time for her to slip away, but she hasn’t felt this way since high school when a boy with deep brown eyes and a seafoam voice promised her the stars, and she’d believed and believed until she’d found him promising another girl the moon. She’d tell Aldous later it was for the information, for the good of the project, and he would smirk without responding, because he hadn’t asked. 

But for the moment, Cosima’s cheek is warm beneath her hand, and then her lips are warm beneath her own, and _mon Dieu_ the girl knows how to use her tongue, Cosima’s gasps are champagne-colored and Delphine is drunk. 

\---------------

And then the haze wears off, all too quickly and all too late, and she’s back to being a spy in mismatched underwear lying in the bed of the girl she had so foolishly fallen for, the girl with the most beautiful voice she’d ever seen, the girl she’d been lying to from day one and would be lying to for days to come and _how did she end up this way, a brilliant scientist lying and whoring and--_

“You okay?” 

“I…” Cosima is so pretty and _pure,_ her voice golden and crystal-clear, and for a moment, as she fumbles for lies, as she remembers to smile at the girl who so carelessly stole her heart, Delphine is jealous and petty, and she wants that easy faith in the world and others, the confidence that just flows from Cosima, the ability to carelessly grin and carelessly kiss. 

But what she wants so much more is to protect Cosima. 

So the moment Cosima leaves, she leaps from the bed, pulls a robe around herself and protects the way she knows to, even if it’s wrong, because it is the lesser of the evils 

(But she doesn’t give Aldous the little girl)

(She thinks of a little girl who won’t be forced into a hospital, a lab, of Cosima’s golden laugh, and the weight in her stomach lightens a fraction).

\---------------

She knows something is wrong the moment Cosima opens her mouth the next time they are both in the apartment, knows on some level that the easy bliss between them is broken for good, because her face is blank and she isn’t shouting, but her voice is sad and mad and less like the soft champagne Delphine had fallen in love with. It’s something harder, intense and duller, and Delphine looks away as everything falls apart. 

It’s her fault in so many ways, and she knows it, and curses herself as Cosima lays out her secrets one by one, _Cormier not Beraud,_ and _I knew it was bullshit but I still thought you were on my side,_ and all Delphine can think is _I am, I am, I am._

Cosima’s voice was never meant to have its hue tarnished with anger and sadness and hurt. But it is and it’s her fault and she knows it, but _oh_ she was doing the right thing. 

“He says you’re in danger!” 

“From _what?”_ she asks, flinging rough-edged golden words at her. “You don’t know? Then you’re the real danger, Delphine.” 

_I’m not, I’m not, I’m not,_ she wants to cry, wants to pull Cosima close and make her understand, make her see that this was only what was best, there was _danger_ but it was not her.

But Cosima won’t believe her, and Delphine won’t blame her. 

_We do what we must,_ and Delphine did what she must, she doesn’t apologize and doesn’t ask for forgiveness either, she did the right thing but is surprised by how much it hurts, the suspicion and fear in Cosima’s eyes, the idea that Cosima thought Delphine would turn a little girl over to Aldous and his ilk. 

_I would never,_ she wants to plead, over and over until Cosima believes, but all she sees in Cosima’s eyes is betrayal, and all she feels is a hurt she has no right to feel.

“I didn’t want to fall for you,” she cries instead, searching for something she needed but didn’t know what it was. “I wasn’t supposed to. But I have.” 

“How can I possibly believe that, Delphine?” 

“Because you feel it too!” she begs-- _tell me you feel it, tell me you love me, tell me something that lets me feel that I’m doing the right thing_ \--”This is not...it’s not a lie, it’s not possible! You know I’ve never been with a woman before.” 

“Yeah, it showed.” 

A part of her wants to flinch, to fight back--but at the same time she knows her power here. 

All she can do in this moment is hurt Cosima more. 

So she leaves, the door shutting with a green-blue click, and she lights a cigarette. 

She doesn’t deserve to cry, but she does anyway.

\---------------

She locks herself in her lab, her once-sanctuary, her haven years ago. She wasn’t the only person to flee to math and science when people got messy--techs sniffling into the white sleeves of their lab coats, scientists and doctors with their cries in different shades of muddled color that they try to hide behind the centrifuge’s copper buzz.

Once upon a time Delphine did the same, crawling to the lab with red eyes and dark bags beneath them. There were days she’d regloved ten or twenty times because she kept stopping to wipe away tears, nights when she’d snuck into the lab in the darkest hours because she was alone in the world, but she could be somewhere she’d felt happy and sit among the machines with their pretty plum murmurs. 

But now she walks into the lab with her head held high and hands steady, carefully not glancing over her shoulder as she works, because her university lab was where it felt like home, but her lab at DYAD was full of eyes. 

So she covers her broken heart with a white lab coat and works with the precision that got her the attention of DYAD, her makeup and hair done with the skill that got her the attention of Aldous--and if she cross-references the clone data a bit more carefully than she had before, if her lipstick is closer to blood-red than bright red and her smile more fanged than flirty when she goes to Aldous’s bed, if she quietly pulls bits of data and gathers secrets and names, she is alone enough that nobody notices. 

And when Cosima texts, when Cosima needs her, she goes. 

“Oh. Well now I get it.” 

“Um, is Cosima…?” The man in front of her is slender, only a few inches taller but with a way of filling the grubby hallway with his royal purple voice. He is also decidedly not Cosima. “Is she…” 

“It’s Delphine!” he calls over his shoulder, and something in his confidence makes Delphine feel cowed. “She’s got baggage.” 

This is not her world. 

She is acutely, painfully aware that this is not the world she knows how to navigate, this noisy dirty world where she is the enemy, the predator, not prey.

“You know, if Sarah were here, she’d kick your willowy arse,” the man mutters, and Delphine revises her opinion.

Cosima is small, hunched in the center of the couch in a slightly-baggy sweater, hardly any sort of threat to anyone. 

Delphine is terrified as she crosses to talk to her.

“I promise you…” She falters as Cosima looked up, eyes not even angry anymore, only deliberately blank. “I did not tell Leekie about Sarah’s child.” 

“What difference does it make? Why are you here?” 

There are thousands of phrases on the tip of her tongue, one hundred ways for her to ask for some sort of absolution--but she hasn’t done anything she thinks is wrong. 

So instead she hands over a genome and asks for trust, and Cosima doesn’t give it but she lets Delphine in, just a bit, and though the champagne of her words was duller than before, she lets Delphine sit next to her and for a few minutes they were wrap themselves up in the world of genetics and nucleotides, pretending it was theory or study or anything other than Cosima’s life.

The illusion shatters when Cosima asks about tag numbers and Delphine tells her, the stories and science coming crashing down, reality coming back into their world. 

“I’m 324b21,” Cosima says, voice champagne-bright but without its sparkle, and Delphine wants to tell her _no, you are not numbers and science, not to me, not anymore,_ but she can’t form the words. What she can do is apologize and so she does, even though she isn’t quite sure what she’s apologizing for. 

The encryption program has a disgustingly chipper pastel-blue sound for something rewriting Cosima’s world.

“I have to make a call,” she says, even while Delphine stares at the screen, somehow surprised that a corporation that saw fit to fool with human lives would turn people into possessions. 

She doesn’t want it to make sense, but in some horrid way she can see the logic, the cold unfeeling rationale. She sees it and she hates it, hates Aldous, and most of all hates the Delphine that sat in an office chair with mango-pink squeaks who listened to Aldous, who believed she was off to do things grand and wonderful. 

_What a fool I was, > she thinks, _a pretty naive fool._ _

“I’m sick, Delphine,” Cosima says, and for a moment Delphine doesn’t put the pieces together, despite being an immunologist and a clone specialist, for one beautiful moment she doesn’t understand. 

But then she does.

And she holds Cosima selfishly, because if she holds onto Cosima tightly enough, she cannot disappear. 

Cosima is her world. 

If she can hold Cosima together long enough, this feeling that the world is falling apart will surely fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am so blown away by the response to this story! I'm overjoyed that you're all enjoying it so far and I hope I didn't disappoint with this chapter. I'm not 110% sure about it myself, and as always, comments/criticism are beyond welcome.
> 
> <3


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Pot is smoked in this chapter.

She does not take Cosima’s blood directly to Aldous. 

Instead she cradles the vial in her purse like a baby bird, locks herself in her lab and settles the blood in the refrigeration unit with feather-gentle hands and turns on the television. 

“I’m Jennifer Fitzsimmons,” says a bright girl with a butterscotch-colored voice, hair in long loose curls and dressed in comfortable sweats and t-shirts, different than Cosima in so many ways except for the eyes--a different person entirely, but with so much light and love in her eyes. 

“They asked me to keep this video journal because they found polyps on my lungs…” 

What is months later for Jennifer and hours later for Delphine, the woman on the screen stares back at her. 

“I’m going to die here,” she rasps, in a voice the color of thick, rotted amber. Her skin is jaundiced, her hair gone, her bones jutting from underneath the thin hospital gown.

Her eyes are dead.

There are no curls, no swim trophies, no comfortable sweats.

There is nothing distinguishing her face from Cosima’s. 

Delphine does not cry, or vomit, or destroy her lab. She does not run to Aldous, vial in hand, and ask him to stop 324b21 from going the way of 896b33. 

Instead she walks calmly to the ICU ward of DYAD’s research hospital wing.

Jennifer is in room 33--some sick joke on the part of a higher up--and for a moment the black-orange chirp of monitors and pale green whoosh of breathing equipment threatens to overwhelm Delphine as she walks calmly around the room, flicking through the medical file left behind by a researcher turned nurse.

_896b33 (Fitzsimmons, Jennifer). Prognosis: Terminal. Do Not Resuscitate._

_Status: Coma 2 days. Tumors now spread to the frontal lobe of the brain._

_Treatment: None by order of Dr. Nealon._

The woman on the bed is shrunken and yellow, not a wisp of hair on her head, tubes running in and out, practically obscuring the tiny figure. 

There is something beautiful, or rather something Delphine finds beautiful in spite of herself. The height, the bone structure, the curl of limp fingers--all things she’d seen before when she’d wrapped her own arms around Cosima’s sleeping form. 

There is no one here to hold Jennifer’s dying body. The woman’s monitor had stopped visiting the afternoon she’d slipped into her coma. 

All the walls of DYAD have eyes and ears, but Delphine knows where each and every one of them hides. Her back to the corner camera and moving so silently she creates not even a whisper of color, she took Jennifer’s cold hand. 

It feels like Cosima’s. 

_I’m sorry,_ she finger-spells in sign, carefully forming and then closing Jennifer’s hand around each letter, knowing that many patients retained some level of sensation after falling into a coma and that, once upon a time, Jennifer Fitzsimmons had wanted to work with the deaf. 

She knows everything about Jennifer Fitzsimmons--every aspect of her life that could be considered an environmental factor, every hour of the disease’s progression through the woman’s body. She knows Jennifer was a good woman, a kind woman, a woman who deserved none of this.

But so is Cosima. 

_I’m sorry that you’re dying, I’m sorry it’s too late to help you, I’m sorry there was no one fighting for you, I’m sorry you lost the bright and sweet color of your voice._

But she can’t be sorry that Jennifer had become ill, that she had turned to the treacherous DYAD for help, that she had lived the last months subjected to all forms of invasive and painful treatments, met again and again with failure.

Because Jennifer had given them _data._ Pages and pages of information on the progression of the disease, of what didn’t work to treat it, of when, exactly, they would reach the point of no return.

And it is all data she can use to save Cosima. 

_I’m sorry I cannot be more sorry,_ she thinks sadly, guilty but so sure she is right, _but I love her, you see._

She leaves then, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when the black-orange sound of a heart monitor fades behind her. 

She goes outside and smokes three cigarettes, hating her desperate need to poison her healthy lungs, trying to cover the bitter taste of the promises she’d made Cosima--the lies she’d told.

When she walks back into DYAD, her hands are steady, her eyes dry.She writes Cosima’s number in neat, precise script on the blood vial’s label, but still finds herself holding it like a fragile miraculous thing--until she reaches Aldous’s office, her armor back on.

 _For the woman I love,_ she repeats to herself as she tangles herself deeper in the spider’s web. _For the only one I love._

\---------------

Jennifer Fitzsimmons had wanted to be cremated, her ashes scattered into the sea. Delphine does not tell Cosima this, though it’s all she can think of as the two of them cut into Jennifer’s body, dissect her organs, take her apart. 

She finds herself again sorry that she isn’t sorry, and manages to take a lock of hair that DYAD had saved for whatever reason and take it to the coastline. 

The ocean roars magenta as the wind carries the hairs away.

\---------------

She still holds Cosima at night, tightly, trying to ignore the way her bones seem a little closer to the surface than before, the way she shivers more frequently now. She holds Cosima tightly in the hopes that it will stop her from disappearing. 

But she can’t ignore Cosima’s coughing. 

Her coughs sound black, blacker than black, in a way that she can’t block out. It feels like dying, each time she hears a cough and suddenly can’t see, hears only that black sound and suddenly can’t _breathe_ because suddenly there’s _nothing._

Cosima notices sometimes, grabs Delphine’s hand or wraps her arms around her from behind, her sparkling voice--just a little rough around the edges--and _asks you okay, babe?_ and she always turns around, tells her _I should be asking you, ma cherie,_ moves the conversation away and lets it go forgotten until the next time.

(There’s always a next time, and a next time, and a next, and there is something so astonishingly unfair about the entire thing, because it feels like dying but only for a moment, and Delphine is fine afterward but Cosima is _not,_ she keeps getting _worse,_ her voice edging toward the rotted amber Jennifer’s had become, and it is Cosima who deserves to heal and Delphine to rot away)

(Jennifer rotted, but Jennifer had had no one but Doctor Nealon and her monitor on her case, but Cosima, Cosima has sisters and Cosima has Delphine, Delphine who is _very_ good at what she does, Delphine who knows how to play DYAD’s game, Delphine who stole a little girl’s tooth. 

Delphine who loves her and will not--will _not_ \--let her rot)

 _We do what we must for the ones we love,_ and that is why she is confused--genuinely confused--at Cosima’s hurt when she discovers that the stem cells are Kira’s. Yes, she’d used a little girl and _yes,_ of course it was terrible, but Kira hadn’t been harmed for the cells and they were keeping Cosima alive, they were what Cosima had needed and still did. Cosima needs the cells and Delphine needs Cosima--it is terrible, but terrible does not always mean wrong.

 _We do what we must for the ones we love,_ she repeated to herself as the lab door slammed and locked, Delphine on the unwelcome side. _Even if it stops them from loving you back._

\---------------

Then they kill Aldous.

She doesn’t know what to feel but fear for Cosima and somewhat lesser fear for the other clones and fear for herself as the spider’s web she wrapped herself in begins to pull tight. She doesn’t know what she wants to do--they cannot run, Cosima needs DYAD and its resources, they cannot fight unless they want to both get killed. 

Cosima wants to get high. 

Delphine has never understood the allure of the high, the idea of losing control seeming more horrendous than freeing, but she can never refuse Cosima anything.

A few puffs later, she feels that Cosima had it right all along.

The colors are _magnificent,_ sparking across her field of vision with the slightest sound, the world swirling with the creaks of chairs, the squeaks of balloons and Cosima, Cosima, Cosima.

She falls into Cosima’s side, chest heaving with laughter, her cheek pressed into the soft fabric of her sweater, Cosima’s giggle dancing in pale golden-cream eddies through the air. 

_“C’est magnifique!”_ she laughs, fingers trying to trace the way the colors moved. _“Il est beau, très beau!”_

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Cosima snorts, falling backwards into a rolling chair and laughing again as both she and Delphine struggle to keep their balance. “But it’s sexy as fuck.” 

_“Les coulerus sont belles!”_ She nuzzles into Cosima’s side, half-kneeling on the ground, the colors still visible behind her closed eyes. _“Tu es belle.”_

“Did you just call me pretty?” Cosima asks, face scrunching adorably, making Delphine beam.

_“Oui, ma belle cherie.”_

“You can’t _do_ that,” she whines, and Delphine giggles again. “Not while we’re high! I’ll _forget.”_

“I won’t,” Delphine murmurs, feeling something more serious bringing down the high. “I’ll never forget.” 

“Yeah.” Cosima looks into her eyes, reaching down to tug at a lock of Delphine’s hair. “Don’t.” 

There is a long silent moment, quiet enough that all the colors disappear and all there is is Cosima, all she wants there to ever be is Cosima, and then she jerks upright and gasps, her champagne sparkle returning. _“Helium!”_

\---------------

“There is something important I want to tell you,” she murmurs after they’ve sobered, Cosima heavy and solid and real in her lap. She should be terrified--this has always felt terrifying before, the level of commitment that the words entail, the point of no return--but she has already leapt headfirst into this with Cosima, she just wants Cosima to know. _“Je t’aime.”_

“Is that why you didn’t tell me that they were Kira’s stem cells?” 

“Yes,” she admits, not easily but readily, threading her fingers through Cosima’s. 

“Is that why, even before I got here, you gave Dr. Leekie my blood samples, even though I told you not to?” 

“Cosima,” she says, not looking for approval anymore, just, she tells herself, Cosima’s understanding. She tries hard to ignore the small part of her that wails, that is crying and starving for love. “It’s your life.”

“It’s not just that. It’s all of us,” Cosima says, and there is that fierceness, that protective gleam, that near-anger that means love. “You have to love all of us.” 

“Then I love all of you,” she says in something more solemn than a promise, bigger than just the two of them in this unsafe haven of a lab. _I am on your side, and I will love the others to do it, I will spent all my days proving it. I will do whatever it takes to show you I love you._

“Good. Because if you betray us again, I have enough dirt on you to destroy your career.” 

She can’t help the laugh that springs up from her chest, fond and incredulous, because all this time Cosima has seen her as the potential threat, Delphine had seen Cosima as the girl to be protected, and here they were, Cosima alive because of Delphine’s lies (she never, never would’ve taken the stem cell treatment) and Cosima holding Delphine’s past over her head to keep her sisters alive.

They were never that different after all.

“And I love you too.” 

The words are out, and there’s no taking them back now, and in the fairytales the words always mean a massive change, a swell in the music, a surge in magic and the battle finally won. 

But here, Delphine is still lying and Cosima is still dying, both of them hiding in a nest of vultures waiting to pull apart Cosima’s dead bones, or serpents unashamed to use either of them for their own ends. 

There is no burst of music here and she’s glad because those ‘romantic’ chords are always strange shades of neon, and she’s glad because that always comes at the end of the movie. 

She is a scientist, she is very good, and she has studied this clone condition--she knows the stages, the prognosis, the lack of cure. But without dramatic chords and fadeaways, without the ending credits looming, she can pretend, for a little longer, that she has forever with Cosima. 

“Why did you fall in love with me?” 

“Hm?” She blinks, startled out of her musings by Cosima’s golden-cream voice. 

“Well, you were kinda all for this secret shady government agency, and then you met me, and something made you ditch them all for me. So I’m kinda wondering what it is, so maybe I can bottle it and sell it. Gotta make a buck while I still can, right?” Cosima’s grinning as she speaks, though, and Delphine can never resist grinning back. 

“Your voice.” 

“Really?” She sounds almost disappointed. “Not my super-impressive flirting skills? Or my boobs? I was really hoping you’d say those, so I could lord them over Sarah. Not literally. But Felix is pretty sure mine are bigger.” 

“Non,” Delphine says, amazed at this eternally-bright girl, “Though your...boobs--cheeky,” she laughs as Cosima snickers at her French accent stumbling around the slang. “They are very nice.” 

“You sure said more _last night--”_

“Co _si_ ma,” she groans as Cosima giggles unrepentantly. 

“It’s true!” 

“I am trying to compliment you, brat!” 

“Okay, okay.” She doesn’t lift her head from Delphine’s lap but Cosima does fold her hands and place them in her own lap, blinking up at Delphine innocently. 

“Your voice,” Delphine continues resolutely, “is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” 

There is a long moment in which Delphine silently panics and Cosima just looks confused. 

“Are you still high?” 

“No, _non,_ I--or maybe, yes,” she sputters, trying to find a way to run from the couch without disturbing Cosima. “Perhaps I should go check on the dental pulp--” 

“Hey, woah, woah, Delphine,” Cosima says gently, sitting up to put a hand on Delphine’s arm. “It’s okay--” 

“The incubator has been--” 

“Do you have synesthesia?” 

They both freeze, Delphine a deer in the headlights and Cosima looking so caring, so gentle, so _fragile_ in her oversized sweater, and _mon Dieu_ she cannot tell Cosima this, cannot watch Cosima break as she learns that Delphine is _faulty_ is _broken_ is _wrong--_

“Hey, Delphine, breathe. You’re okay, yeah? Shit, just breathe.” 

“I should be saying this to you,” she gasps, seized by a sudden urge to laugh. Cosima doesn’t laugh; she just pulls Delphine closer and runs her small hands up and down Delphine’s back until she can breathe again. 

“You know I’m totally cool with you being a synthete, right?” 

“I do not know what that is,” she admits, somehow feeling guilty that one of Cosima’s good days has been ruined by this. As if she can sense this, Cosima just takes Delphine’s hands and squeezes, a gentle reassurance of _I’m here._

“Okay, so why don’t you just tell me what you feel, and we’ll figure out if we’re talking about the same thing together?” 

Delphine nods, hands anxiously twisting in Cosima’s, but the simple words do not and will not come. She opens and closes her mouth and waits for Cosima to leave, to drop the subject and Delphine’s hands and walk away, but Cosima doesn’t. 

Cosima waits, and Cosima stays. 

“I see them,” she says finally, voice small like a child’s. “When I hear...noises, sounds, they…” 

“They have color?” 

_“Oui,_ yes, I…” She broke, just a bit, trying to curl in on herself so she wouldn’t have to face Cosima, to pull away before Cosima did. 

“Well shit.” 

Delphine flinched, tried again to pull away--

“If I was a synthete too, this could totally be one of Whedon’s metaphors for queerness.” 

_“...Quoi?”_

“Okay, we’re having a Buffy marathon at some point.” Delphine shakes her head, trying to understand, and Cosima smiles so gently, pulling Delphine closer so they can press their foreheads together. “You never heard of synesthesia?” 

“No, I…” She feels something like a homecoming, like something slotting into place. “There is a name for this? There are others?” 

“Yeah, totally,” and Cosima is so gentle Delphine thinks she might break. “It’s not even a disorder, Delphine, just a phenomenon. They don’t really know what causes it, but then again, they don’t really know what makes our brains function normally....you really never researched it? Looked into it at all?” 

“No, no, I…” She realizes how stupid she is, a scientist who never bothered to unravel her own mind, a doctor who never tried to treat herself. “The way Papa spoke about it, I...I thought I was _broken,”_ she keens, pulling her hands away to cover her face, her tears. “I thought…” 

“Hey, shh, shh,” Cosima coos, and Delphine thinks this is ridiculous, Cosima is ill and Delphine is making her become the caretaker, Cosima deserves the world and Delphine deserves none of this kindness that Cosima is showing her. “You’re not broken. You’re not. You’re not.” 

Cosima says it again and again, in the same way Delphine sometimes does, late at night when Cosima is shaking with coughs and cold and tears and Delphine reassures her again and again _you are not an experiment to me, cherie, you are not a number you are Cosima, you are not my property you are my world, it will be okay it will be okay it will be okay_ and Delphine doesn’t believe her, but she thinks it may be a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, again, I'm stunned by the response this story has gotten! So many thanks to everyone who's read/left kudos/commented--it really does mean so much to me. 
> 
> The second half of s2/the last chapter of this story should be up relatively soon. Comments/kudos are always welcome!


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is...the final chapter. Thank you all so much!

And then it all comes crashing down with Cosima’s body in the lab. 

Delphine can still feel Cosima in her arms from the moment when she’d panicked, forgotten all her most basic training and just tried to hold her, felt her jerking and choking and dying and tried to hold her close, to tell her it would be okay before her training kicked in, before she knelt on the tile with the man who was meant to be their savior and tried to stop her from choking on the blood that was meant to be keeping her alive.

She can see it behind her eyes, again and again, as she tries to focus on the face of the woman in front of her-- _not Cosima,_ she tells herself again, _not Cosima, not Cosima._

“How is she?” Rachel sits differently than Cosima, dresses differently than Cosima, her blonde bob is as different from Cosima’s black dreadlocks as hair could be. 

And she is different in the most important way, her voice is nothing like Cosima’s gentle golden champagne. Rachel is yellow flames stretched thin, nearly the same shade as the sound of high heels against tile. If her world hadn’t just crashed to pieces, Delphine would almost find it funny.

“The growths have spread from Cosima’s uterus and lungs to her esophagus, all her epithelial tissue, and, now, her kidneys.” _When the kidneys go, the liver follows,_ she remembers one of her teachers lecturing, voice dove grey. _And when the liver goes, so does the rest._

If the growths spread much further through Cosima’s lungs, she will stop being able to breathe, if they infringe on her trachea she may have to be intubated, if they even _touch_ her pancreas--

“We know there’s a way,” Rachel interrupts, as if she’s been reading Delphine’s mind. Her eyes are Cosima’s eyes, russet and warm and somehow earnest, somehow hopeful.

“Yes,” she agrees, almost unwillingly--because maybe Rachel is sincere, maybe Rachel will help, and Delphine needs-- _needs_ \--someone to talk to about the things she can’t say to Cosima. “But it’s Kira.” 

“Only until we can buy the time for Duncan to find a cure. We need to convince Sarah that we have no designs beyond that treatment,” and Delphine doesn’t miss the we. 

“Duncan was one thing, but her daughter…” 

“Please. Things are different now. I’ve been lied to as well.” Rachel has been, Delphine knows, and they need DYAD to save Cosima. 

“She won’t believe you?” 

“Do you?” 

“Ah…” _No, but I need to use you._ “I am in the middle, committed to my subject.” 

“Well said,” Rachel says and they smile at each other, playing the same game for different ends. “Doctor Cormier, I’d like you to take over as interim director of the program.”

“Me?” 

“The chair is vacant,” and Rachel’s voice flickers like flames with something like emotion and Delphine doesn’t know what it is but it’s there, it’s possible Rachel is changing after all, “You understand the human side and the science. You’d be a wonderful ambassador.” 

“And you need to sway Sarah.” 

“It’s not a bribe, or a ploy.” 

_Of course it isn’t,_ Delphine thinks, _you are just handing me what you know I want on a silver platter after asking me to persuade a mother to use her child._

Aldous is dead but there is that old saying, _cut off one head and two grow in its place._

But _Rachel_ \--Rachel has been betrayed, Rachel could become ill as well, as cold as Rachel is, they are her sisters and Cosima is dying--and maybe Delphine can use her. 

“You’re uniquely qualified. We could take this program in an entirely new direction.”

_I could save Cosima._

\---------------

Delphine isn’t sure how she ever mistook Sarah for Cosima, as identical as their faces are. 

Sarah’s voice is rough, liquid dark gold, arcing through the air and twisting with her foster mother’s burnt orange, rushing for Delphine’s throat. 

She wonders if Kira’s inherited that bright color--she doesn’t think they’ll ever let her close enough to the child to find out. 

She can understand how she must look to the mothers, the wolf not even hiding in sheep’s clothing anymore, asking them to send their most precious daughter into the den, but they do not look deeper. 

Rachel is _invested,_ the clones all need this, and Delphine is sorry, she is so sorry because this is not what she wants to do but what she _needs,_ and she doesn’t need them to tell her how horrible what Delphine is asking is, she knows, and she would _never,_ for herself she would never.

But oh, she would burn the world to protect the sparkle of Cosima’s voice.

“Sarah,” she says as the woman tries to shut her out of the house. “I am so sorry.” 

“Yeah,” the woman scoffs, then stops at something in Delphine’s face. “This really is her only chance?” 

“She is...so ill,” Delphine admits, nearly bursting into tears in the doorway of her lover’s clone’s foster mother’s home. “I want there to be another way.” 

“Doesn’t stop you from using this one though.” 

“No.” She meets Sarah’s eyes now, recognizing that hardness there, that survival instinct that Cosima has never had to develop. For a wild moment she wonders what it would have been like to have a mother like Sarah, fierce and strong, instead of the Maman she remembers in cerulean sobs and a closed bedroom door. “Not when Cosima is at stake.” 

Sarah stares at her for a long moment, opens her mouth as if to speak, and then closes the door in Delphine’s face.

\---------------

“What have you done?”

_I have been used, I was an unwilling betrayer, I was a fool and a child is lost,_ all the words are on the tip of her tongue, but her breath catches and escapes as a sob.

“Delphine,” and Cosima sounds scared now, not reaching out for Delphine, not pulling her close the way she normally does so easily. “What have you done? Is it something with the samples--”

“Kira.” The word feels ripped from her throat and she hears Cosima’s breath stop but she doesn’t turn around, can’t and won’t watch Cosima’s face crumble as she realizes what a fool Delphine has been again, that Delphine has destroyed everything _again._ “Rachel has Kira.” 

“Oh God.” She takes a breath to speak and starts to cough and Delphine sobs again, her world turning dark for a moment as Cosima clears her throat, sitting up fully. “Is she…” 

“Unharmed. Rachel had a room prepared--she ordered a bed, _curtains,”_ Delphine half-laughs at the ridiculousness of the situation--a woman cold enough to hide stem cell treatments from her dying sister, but who still thinks of pink curtains for the room of the child she abducted. “She has wanted Kira, to control Sarah--if she harms Kira, she will lose that.” 

“And Sarah?” Cosima is so scared, her voice so small, a whisper of champagne, and Delphine hates herself for it. Delphine shakes her head, leaning forward to cover her face in trembling hands. She doesn’t know, Rachel will be trying to keep her at bay now, but both Delphine and Cosima know that if DYAD has the daughter, the mother will follow. 

“Delphine, look at me.” She nearly jumps at the feeling of Cosima’s hand on her shoulder, nearly flinches away from the suspicion and flat, hard gold in Cosima’s voice. “Did you give Rachel Kira?” 

_“No!”_ She isn’t sure if she wants to hold Cosima or hurt herself; what she does know is that she is frustrated and guilty and a _fool--_ “I would not--Rachel tricked me--I would never give them Sarah’s child, not willingly, not--” _Not if there was another way._

“Okay.” Cosima’s hand shifts, going to rub Delphine’s arm instead of holding her shoulder, slipping down her arm until their fingers entwine. “I believe you.” 

“Sarah will never forgive me.” 

“We’ll deal with Sarah.” Cosima’s free hand slips on her glasses. Her other hand doesn’t leave Delphine’s. “In fact, we’ll get Sarah out of here--she’ll be here within the hour, I’m sure--and get Kira somewhere far, far away from DYAD’s reach. We just need a plan.” 

_I can get Rachel’s itinerary,_ she’s meant to say, or _I may know where Rachel is keeping Kira,_ or _We could use what we’ve learned from Duncan as leverage._

“You are a marvel,” is what comes out instead.

“Yeah?” 

_“Oui._ You have not even asked about the marrow.” 

“We’ve still got it?” Cosima’s voice is a hushed and pale gold whisper, the sound of someone hoping to hope, and despite it all it puts a smile on Delphine’s face. 

“We’ve still got it,” Delphine murmurs back, watching the tiny grin grow on Cosima’s face, the tiny bit of hope growing in her eyes. “You have a real chance, _cherie._ We can beat this.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, we might actually beat this.” Cosima stops to clear her throat, fingers rubbing briefly at the still-unfamiliar cannula that reminds them both of just how much is at stake. “But first, Sarah and Kira.” 

“Rachel will be keeping them close, but as director I may be able to at least delay whatever she has planned for Sarah, at least for tonight. In the morning we can develop a proper plan--but Cosima, you need your rest,” she adds, noticing how the smaller woman is already beginning to slump tiredly despite how short their conversation had been. “I am sorry, I should not have woken you--” 

“They took Kira, of course you should’ve. My brain still works, even if my lungs are shit.” 

“I will delay Rachel as long as I can,” Delphine promises, “Please get some sleep. I will set this right tomorrow, I promise.” She starts to stand but Cosima tightened her grip, tugging Delphine back toward the bed. 

“Stay with me?” 

“I do not think hospital beds were intended for two.” 

“We’ll manage,” Cosima quips, and they do, surprisingly easily--Delphine has always been slender, and the bones are starting to jut out from underneath Cosima’s pale skin. Delphine can feel them, even through Cosima’s thick sweater, and tries not to think about it. 

_“Bonne nuit, ma belle cherie,”_ she murmurs instead, and Cosima tastes more metallic than before, tangs of copper and antiseptic, but she is still so very _Cosima_ and Delphine will never not love kissing her. 

Cosima kisses her back and closes her eyes and Delphine runs feather-light fingertips up and down Cosima’s spine, trying not to hold her too close so that Cosima will not realize how terrified Delphine is. 

All they have is marrow. There is no guarantee that the gene therapy will be ready in time, that infection or graft versus host disease would not set in after the bone marrow transplant, that Cosima would not be caught again in whatever cat and mouse game Rachel and Sarah are playing. 

All there is is Delphine, who was enough of a fool to let a child be abducted, to become a pawn when she thought she was being queen, Delphine who loves Cosima and will do whatever she must to keep her safe. 

“Delphine?” 

“You should be sleeping.” 

“I’m not _eight,”_ she replies petulantly, and it is so Cosima that Delphine has to smile. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I love you.” 

“I love you,” Delphine responds, even though the words don’t feel like enough. 

“No, I mean--” Cosima sighs, shifting out of Delphine’s embrace just enough for her to look Delphine in the eye. “I researched you, you know? I know about some of the stuff you did for Leekie, some of the experiments and trials you were involved in. And that was some really shady stuff. And I know that you’ve manipulated and lied to a lot of people. I know you’ve lied to me.”

Delphine opens her mouth, to defend herself or apologize, but Cosima just shakes her head and keeps talking. 

“And I know that you see sounds, and prefer milk chocolate over dark, and like to play with my dreads when you think I’m asleep, and your forehead creases in the most adorable way when you’re concentrating, and your lips somehow always taste sweet. I know that you only do things when you think it’s right to do them, and I know I love you. I can’t trust you all the time and I don’t like some of the things you’ve done, but I get why you did them, and I love you.” Cosima is crying now and Delphine can feel the tears running down her own cheeks. “You love all of us. And I love all of you.” 

Delphine presses her forehead to Cosima’s, shoulders shaking, and she can feel Cosima breathing shakily in her arms, for once from emotion rather than illness. 

“Cosima,” she whispers once she can manage, _“Ma cherie,_ I love you so much, you are my most precious thing in the world, _je t’aime plus que le monde.”_

“I know,” Cosima murmurs back. “That’s what scares me sometimes.” 

Delphine doesn’t respond, because sometimes it scares her too, the knowledge that she would do anything for Cosima, the fact that she is drowning with guilt over what has happened to Sarah and her daughter but she feels no regret, she would do it all again because now Cosima has a chance. 

“I need you, Delphine. I don’t...I’m not gonna make it without you.” The admission is in a small voice, champagne but without sparkle and the slightest tremble, a quiet confession of so much more-- _I’m afraid, I don’t want to die, I need your skill, I need your determination, I need your love, I need to not be alone in this world of science and wolves._

Cosima does not need to hear phrases like _I need you as well,_ she doesn’t need the burden of _You are all I have and love in this world,_ she cannot carry the weight of Delphine’s guilt or doubts or fears. 

Cosima needs her. 

“I will never leave you,” Delphine breathes, the words coming easily to her lips because this was something she’d decided so long ago. “I will never leave you.” 

\---------------

“You’ll be on the plane.” 

There is no emotion in Rachel’s voice, there is no flare in the thin flame-yellow of her voice, no indication that she has just destroyed Delphine in the worst of ways. 

“You have everything you wanted--everything DYAD wanted--you _used_ me!” She is begging, or she is crying, or she is scrabbling for some scrap of pity, or she is doing all these things at once, because Rachel does not _understand,_ Cosima _needs_ her, they need to free Sarah and Kira, the bone marrow transplant needs to be done as soon as possible, Delphine is the best immunologist and Cosima _needs_ her. 

She needs Cosima. 

“Please, let me say goodbye to Cosima,” and in another time and place she would be ashamed of herself, the woman who prides herself on being put together breaking down in an elevator, but if she can convince Rachel to let her see Cosima maybe they can put this right somehow, maybe they can run, maybe, _maybe--_

“Cosima will be well cared for, and Sarah’s procedure is imminent.” 

All she can think is _no, this cannot be happening, you cannot be so cold, no, Cosima will not be well cared for, Cosima will have Doctor Nealon and he will sit by and watch her decay in the name of advancement, no, we were meant to be together we were meant to free Sarah we were meant to undo my mistakes we were meant to be together._

“You forget, Doctor Cormier, none of this is personal.” 

“I love her,” and it is as much a threat as it is a plea, she knows Cosima will die and she will do what she must to stop it, she will grovel at Rachel’s feet, but she is also _angry,_ angry at Rachel, angry at herself. “And if you let her die without me it is personal.” 

For a moment Rachel stops, and for a moment Delphine hopes, but then she is gone without even turning around. 

And Delphine is alone. 

She is but she isn’t, because there is a man behind her who does not bother to hide his gun, who does not bother pretending that he doesn’t feel disdain for the woman in front of him, who is so much bigger than she is and so clearly stronger and tells her in a voice the color of dead leaves that he will be escorting her to the airport. For her own safety, he says. Ms. Duncan doesn’t want her to do anything she’ll regret, he says. 

Delphine sends a text.

She could send a plea for help that would only throw Cosima into more trouble, she could send a final apology which would only throw Cosima into worry and guilt, she could send one last declaration of love, but Delphine has never liked to live her life the way it happens in movies, with tearful confession-filled goodbyes. 

She is a scientist, and so she settles for the facts. 

_It’s up to you now._

Five words, and Rachel’s schedule, and it is not nearly enough but Delphine has never been able to give Cosima enough, to give Cosima what she deserves. 

But she had made Cosima a promise. 

The elevator reaches the ground floor with a cherry-colored ding and Delphine has never detested the color red more as the man takes her arm, begins to steer her through the doors and toward a black DYAD car. The sort of car people go into and disappear forever. 

She had made Cosima a promise. 

The man is strong, free hand resting almost casually on his gun, his arm holding her just a bit too tightly, pushing her along just hard enough to stumble, and she is sure he is ex-military, one with a shady past, some of DYAD’s favorite employees. 

But she had made Cosima a promise. 

“Do you know, _monsieur,”_ she says when the car is looming only a few paces ahead, the car that could take her somewhere safer, somewhere she could forget clones and conspiracies, somewhere she could start anew, somewhere away from Cosima, “That, even if I know I am doomed to fail, I always try to keep my promises?” 

_I will never leave you._

_You do what you must for the ones you love._

_I love her, and that makes this easy._

\---------------

Flight 371 to Frankfurt takes off from Toronto Pearson International Airport with a piercing whine. The woman in seat 24A fidgets nervously, perfectly manicured nails tapping against the armrest. The man in seat 24C makes a faint sound of annoyance, leaning back in his seat. 

Seat 24B, the seat of one Doctor Delphine Cormier, is empty.

Instead Delphine runs, stumbles, gasps for breath, through alleys in a city she is not welcome in toward an address she only half-remembers, a sanctuary for a family she is not a part of. She runs like she once did as a child, through the fields behind the school, but now she is running from boys armed with guns instead of sticks, across rough concrete instead of through grass. 

She has been hit, or perhaps grazed with a shot, or perhaps both, blood hitting the pavement as she runs, burning fire that isn’t just sore muscles screaming through her body. The plane tickets are somewhere far behind her, her coat dropped a few blocks back, and she isn’t sure when she ran out of her impractical shoes but she can feel every sharp bit of pavement in her soles. 

She is alone, and she is being hunted, but she is not caught, she is not theirs, she is running toward uncertainty and fear and pain and Cosima. 

Her bare feet slap a pink sound against the ground. 

A sound like sunrise. 

A sound like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is the last chapter, I feel like I have to say something special and profound, but I'm a bit speechless. Of course, massive amounts of credit go to my friend and beta Noelle, who puts up with me fussing over tiny things at all hours and the fact that I have around seven unfinished stories and still message her at night with new ideas. 
> 
> And of course thank YOU! I am seriously stunned by the response this story has gotten and by all of your kind words. It's everything I could have hoped for and so much more for my first multi-chaptered OB fic. I hope every one of you finds 20 units of your respective currency. And hey, come bug me on tumblr at probablytatiana! I mostly lurk and reblog things while forgetting to tag them, but am always up to chat. 
> 
> This is too long. Just...thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Delphine has two types of synesthesia--chromesthesia and number form synesthesia. Though I researched this, I am not a synthete nor do I know any, and therefore if anything I have said in this fic is offensive or inaccurate beyond poetic license should allow, please don't hesitate to let me know. 
> 
> This fic would not exist without my beautiful goddess of a beta, Noelle. She deserves a big fat hunk of credit. 
> 
> Please feel free to comment, and thank you for reading!


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